


For When I Close My Eyes

by ASignificantWhisper



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Explicit Language, Fluff and Angst, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Public Sex, Romance, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 02:19:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5850133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASignificantWhisper/pseuds/ASignificantWhisper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's no medicine to rid Tom Fairfax of those haunting blue eyes. Caught between, anything can happen when you're ailed by past and present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. For My Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> A little drabble I've come up with in the form of a chapter 1. It's not known cannon yet, but a lot of us whom watch Cam (Tom) in Mercy Street do ship his character with the character of George Henderson, and thus this fic was born for me. I love the character of Tom and how Cameron Monaghan brings him to life. So of course I was inspired to start fanfiction for this. 
> 
> Let me know what you think? Over at my Tumblr : http://wroteclassicaly.tumblr.com/ 
> 
> More chapters to be added later. Will add warnings as needed. 
> 
> The character of George Henderson hasn't been described yet. But I myself picture Noel Fisher's character in The Pacific as George. As I said, lemme know what you think though? :)

"Mhm, can you pass me that water?"

Nothing. No immediate response. Void of everything. Static rustling through every corner until it churned only the blood through his ears. Foggy, thick. His head feels like molasses wound around him under water. He's drowning. Suffocating. His eyes burn. With tears, with smoke. It's overwhelmingly paralyzing. Memories? Reality? Which is which?

He clears his throat, his fingers all torn and cut, dry to match his chapped lips, they wrap around the tin, slurping the lukewarm drink. It's not cold, no, not like it should be. But things aren't like they should be, not anymore. He watches the woman in her flowing skirts, scurrying about, tending to the others in the room. Others. Just guys like himself, things wrong with them. The surface wounds, the internal wounds, maybe they'd heal? Would the gut wrenching guilt? The way it felt on the field? Would they still hold onto this too? Like he is?

It's all too much to think about right now. His left arm is heavy like a weight. The effects from whatever the good doctor chalked him full of starting to wear off a little. He sighs, trying to will his brain to just... shut itself off.

"Don't think you can do that, Fairfax. Not how it works, " That deep voice catches his attention. He lifts his head, the ache slipping away piece by piece with the familiar at hearing that deep tone.

"George?" The words are off his lips before he can stop himself or remember his surroundings.

"Naw, Caesar. Course' it's me, Tommy. Miss me?"

Tom gazes up in wonder, George's features as perfect on him as they were the last time they saw each other. Since the last time Tom spent the entire night outlining each inch of George with his fingertips and his mouth through the small glowing light of their lantern. He's stretched on the stool inches from Tom's bed, his bow legs sprawled out, leaving his dirty boots to tap steady beats on the floor. Often the way he did to calm Tom.

George's uniform sat on him, covered in dirt, blood stains. His hat gone, leaving the short cropped blonde hair to stand out. He bore a little bit of strawberry blonde scruff, the freckles hidden beneath it, woven smudges of dirt Tom had promised to help George clean off once they got the wash area to themselves. Just the two of them to soak. Gun fire in the back ground. A simple tent to protect them from danger in the night, and steady heartbeats to keep them both sane, together.

George tilts his head at Tom, those haunting blue eyes what Tom will forever take with him. Carry with him. No medicine would ever deprive his mind of George's electric blue eyes. Tom clutches at his chest, the sight breath taking. _Jesus, he loves George._ He loves those stout fingers, that defined jaw that hugged George's facial hair better than any other man Tom has seen before. And those lips, those plump lips. Tom can feel them burning his skin. Right on his knuckles, touching them to lift where George would kiss his chest to taste his heartbeat on his tongue. Those lips that would path Tom's body when he became too wound up to function, or when they would be laughing at shooting the shit. Those lips that wrapped around Tom's cock, making his eyes roll back into his head. Those lips that silenced his panicked cries, soothed his worries, and tied them together. Tom wasn't at the mercy of the enemy, but at the mercy of George.

It wasn't always like this. Before the war, they were best friends. Best friends who acted like youths. Flirted with the ladies. Drunk in the bars. Boasted in the company of other men. But that changed. One night Tom found himself bent over in an alley during a rainstorm with George behind him, getting something he never realized he needed, from the one person he never expected to share it with. It was on, off. They promised one another it would wear off now that it was out of their systems. Then the war came. Panic set in. George looked at Tom as if he were the last drink of water left on an earth rotating over the light of the sun. And they drank, they drank in one another. They made love until the shots stopped. Until things were okay again. And that's when they knew. They couldn't stop this anymore than the two of them could take on this fight with just swords.

"You're starin' again, Tom. I know I'm a welcomed sight, but snap out of it. Come back to me?" George is smiling that dimpled, amused smile reserved just for Tom. Tom knows George is used to him drifting off, staring, dazed, traveling through their memories. Ever since the war began, it's all Tom did. And now, it's all he can seem to muster the strength to do anymore. He wasn't going to let go, even if he knew he should sometimes. His body, his mind, it screams for George. Not his fiance', not his friends, not his fallen fellow soldiers.

 **George.** _His best friend. His lover. His ghost._

_~*~_

It’s raining. He can hear it. Hear the nurses, the people, the others go on about the mud outside stuck to their shoes, ruining the day. Tom lifts his head from the crisp white pillow, eyes watching the ceiling, floating away he wills himself. Alice’s ribbon decorated basket of muffins in his peripheral vision.

He remembers how much he loved the rain. Now it’s one more thing that can’t calm him without bringing in more pain of loss. Tom flows from the stream of consciousness, right into the rain soaked air beyond this house’s roof. House of bed ridden suffering. Of lies. Tom wills his strength of some false, warped hope for the roof to crumble and let the water wash away all the pain.

"Hey, Fairfax?"   
  
Tom smiles, seeing the foot of his cot bed filled with a clean, blue eyed, blonde man.

"George." And just like that, Tom drifts to that day not so long ago, that however, felt like eternity wrapped in a lifetime. One of the last real memories he shared with George.

~*~

_They had rarely gone by a lavish, thriving creation while on the field. Everything littered with ash, dirt, cut down. So many remains being fed off by the Ravens and their static cries. Seemingly, every time blood had been shed, the earth died below it, piece by piece. Tom couldn’t enjoy the travel when it only reminded him that they were all on a checker board, killing one another. Let the pieces fall where they may, let another family member fall to their knees in grief, whether it be the enemies or those of their comrades._

_He closed his eyes, clenching a knuckle white grip against the oak tree. Why did anyone have to die? Why did the boys back home cheer on war? Did they even know what it was like to watch the light leave the eyes of someone you were told was the enemy? Someone you barely knew, someone that you might care for on the other side of the battle lines? How hollow it felt. How deranged. It didn’t leave any sort of victory in its wake._

_The acid bile of an empty, sour stomach filled Tom’s throat to the brim. His lungs clogged, tongue tinged with that smell of burning wood. The flames had long since simmered down to smoke piles, leaving their team to track off for supplies for an approaching rainstorm. The rain a cleanse for this forsaken land now. It’s why Tom jumped to volunteer, hoping maybe he’d see a better part of land untouched from battle. No such luck so far. The grass had turned brown. The trees the only thing left with a slight green tint. Tom figured all the gun powder and smoke were the reasons it died out. He brushed the pad of his calloused thumb down the bullet bit bark, watching some scatter at his feet. And that’s when he heard it. The soft, gentle call of his best friend._

_"Hey, Fairfax?"_

_George Henderson is leaning against the jagged V shaped oak opposite of Tom, a cigarette hanging from his lips, his fingers wet from his creek water flask, watching his best friend. Most men would fill it with booze. And they did, sometimes. But George, ever the eccentric filled his with creek water to refresh himself and of course, Tom._

_Tom was smiling. A gut reaction to his everything. He greeted George in a few short steps, not bothering to look both ways right then, splaying his hands out on those hips. His eyes searched out George’s, one hand not able to keep from idling itself up George’s back, fingers cupping the nape of his neck, letting his hand twist, knuckles drape across George’s blonde hair. So perfect._

_"Hmm?" He answered his best friend._

_George laughed, unwinding Tom’s hand from his neck, bringing up his bloody battle battered hand to kiss each torn open knuckle, making Tom’s toes curl in his boots, that fire startling him, settling in his heart in stuttering drop offs._

_"I found it," George said in a low whisper, the storm winds picking up the trees to a rustle._

_"Found it…..? Found what?" Tom arched a red brow as George led him around the other side of his oak, to a patch of tall green grass. Standing alone. And in the middle it bore the most beautiful little garden Tom had ever seen. He’s gasping, holding his hat in front respectably to Mother Nature. She stood on this one decorative spot, nestled away. So safe and beautiful. His eyes filled with tears at such a magnificent miracle. When you’re used to seeing everything die, you’re not ready to see something alive and cherished so beautifully._

_He lifted his gaze to see George crouching down, picking up a stray yellow daisy. He stepped to Tom, handing it at as an offer. "For my soldier," George said softly._

_"George," Tom whispered, fingers sliding along the velvet petals, a crash of thunder in the distance between himself and George. Tom lowered his head, a blush coating his cheeks._

  
_"Hey?" The question hung off George’s lips, Tom looked up from the daisy in his palm. He meets the blue eyed stare of his best friend, of his lover. George outstretched an arm, swiping the pad of his thumb over the red stubble on Tom’s jaw. Tom’s lips part, eyes closing as he inhales. He’s met with George’s warm mouth on his own, covering him in the safety they’d made for themselves together._

_George breaks it, all too briefly, watching his green eyed lover._

_"When the storm hits, we’ll lay down here. Just me and you. And I’ll tell you when I’m inside of you," George rasped, so close Tom can feel his hot breath fanning his own mouth. Red stubble met with blonde._

_"You’ll tell me a story?" Tom grinned, pushing himself against George._

_"Oh, I’ll tell you. About our love," George spoke gently, causing Tom to look him in the eyes._

_"When the storm hits?" Tom directed his question firmly._

_George didn't miss a beat, forehead meshing against Tom’s. "When the storm hits."_


	2. My Just Once

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My first just once was always my only forever, George.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit I got a lot of inspiration for this. It's got some explicit smut. And I kind of added in some of my own twists from info we've seen on the show so far, such as Alice and Tom secretly getting engaged - George being the only witness in this fic. 
> 
> Flashbacks are all in italics. Present day Tom is in regular text form. There will be ~*~ to signal each beginning and end of the flashbacks. And warning : there's ALOT in this chapter, lmao. 
> 
> Couple of things : George doesn't say cock outloud and neither does Tom, because I couldn't find it the term existed in the civil war era or not. So I just used it as a description. Also, I wasn't sure when lube was around, so I improvised. Poor Tom is feeling it though. :(  
> LOL, anyyyyyyyyyyyways. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated here & at my Tumblr : wroteclassicaly.tumblr.com
> 
> Note : Re-edited this chapter because I was tired when I posted it last night, lol. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! ;)

Nightfall again. A chess game with the priest, more berries from Alice. Tom is left feeling just as hollow as before. It's evening now and he's resting. The skies have clouded over for the approaching storm. It's leaving Tom dangling on the precipice of memories. George doesn't come to him right now, no. It's him and him alone. This notion comes with the patter of rain on the windows. A soldier groans at the racket, the other how it makes his bones weak. Tom sighs, trying to wiggle his way into comfort that becomes impossible once the past takes hold.

He's up from his bed and out into the masses, easily slipping into the back alley of the hospital. It's a good place he scouted for himself on his last walk, opting out of telling the good preacher. Something didn't settle right the more meetings Tom entertained with the fellow. The wind is carrying in the storm seconds after Tom nestles his back to the cool brick wall, letting it howl in against his form. He can taste the water on his tongue, smell the brick, even the town. It's all so much, so familiar. He finds himself smiling, eyes closing.

**~*~**

_"Fairfax, be careful! You'll fall. Hell," George rasped out, dripping in beer, water soaking his clothing. But Tom cannot. Oh, he's laughing, he's winded so hard. Dirt, blood all over from the bar fight. He's high on the rush he gets by being with George, wreaking havoc in only ways they knew how. Henderson and Fairfax._

_"Good ol' Tom and George," Tom shouted, slapping a hand out to pat the brick._

_George's laughing, heaving himself against the opposite side of Tom. "You're gone, my dearest Tom."_

_"My dearest? You're so soft with cushion of a heartsick sweetheart," Tom teased, earning a shove from his best friend._

_"You know what I meant." George retorted, swaying with the uphill of the wind._

_"Full of a lotta shit, Georgie," Tom outstretched an arm to grip George's shoulder, stumbling ever so slightly. "thank you for makin' it okay in there."_

_George softened, steadying his mate. "They had no right to antagonize you over being with Alice. It's not your fault she carries on the way she does, she...." His tone is distasteful, the bile nudging his liquor back up his throat._

_"Maybe I'm not enough? Too much of a boy, not a good enough man, George," Tom trailed off, voice lowering considerably so, that he dropped his head onto George's shoulder._

_George feels himself ignite again. **What was this?** He's so angry at Alice Green parading around like she does when she should be proud enough to carry Tom on her arm. He gives a possessive rake of his fingers through wet, red hair, his lips now by Tom's ear. "You don't gotta prove yourself to me, Tom. Ever. I know you."_

_Tom looks up, that red hair matted in directions that frame the beads of water dotting several freckles. Tom swipes out his tongue to catch one off his lips, making George use the pad of his thumb to catch it first. **Oh , oh fuck he's dizzy, so very dizzy.** The green thinning to a black bowl in Tom's eyes. He's panting, looking at George in a way that should scare someone off with its hidden meaning, its intensity. But it doesn't. It's right. It happens too fast to stop. Their shirt soaked chests are flush together in a sticking tug, their foreheads leaning off the other, noses mashed to a press in a puzzling tilt. Blonde wet hair meeting with red. Tom lets his hand push up the front of that sopping linen, feeling George's muscles shake under each touch he makes._

**~*~**

Tom shifts into the rapid bulge presenting itself through his slacks, warming his stomach. He palms himself through the fabric, turning into the memory. Smiling lightly, Tom touches over his heart with his other hand, the beats thumping the further he lets himself drift.

**~*~**

_He doesn't stop until he reaches George's heart, fingertips drumming shakily. "Your heart is beating so fast, George." George is defensive, trying to rear back. Tom is cradling him with that reassuring smile though, bringing George's hand up by his wrist, to his own chest. "Mine too. See?"_

_George looks so awe struck, so caught. **The alcohol, was it? No.** Neither of them believed that in this moment. It's too late to move it back. George closed the gap with the first move, his lips pressing over Tom's. Tom reciprocates his wish, a piece securing itself into his chest the more seconds that go by with George kissing him, working them back into the wall and out of sight. The rain water pelted them, neither man caring. George is undoing his own suspenders, Tom is jerking George's shirt open, the buttons scattering across the ground below. It's messy, it's caution to the stormy winds._

_Tom wiggles against George, backing him into the wall, his mouth latching onto the wet skin below George's ear. He bites into it with milky white teeth, George's toes curling in his boots, hand slapping down against the slick brick. "Tom..." It's a plea, a begging encouragement. The driving force hurtles into George, starting at the tips of his toes, rocking him with adrenaline until he absolutely cannot take it any longer. He's a messy stack of words, lacking any coherent sentences. "I need. I need to be.... Tom, I don't know."_

_"Shh, shh," Tom interjected, soothing George._

**~*~**

Tom twists his fingers to make a fist, his nails digging into his palms. He folds into the memory, whirling to brace against the brick wall, the rain now sprinkling the back of his neck. It tacks him further, his hand undoing his slacks, pulling out his already painfully swollen cock. He swipes his thumb across the leaking head, rising onto the balls of his feet. "George," He hisses into his wrist, biting ever so slightly.

**~*~**

_Tom stepped back a few paces, taking his suspenders down, his trousers apart, pushing them down to his knees with deep breaths. He doesn't break eye contact with George, his ribs taking a beating from his hammering heart. With his cock free, Tom watches his best friend take in the effect he had on him, whispering Tom's name as he eyes Tom's member, to the drops of pre-cum staining the walk, washed into a white line by the rain moments later. Tom balls his shirt up at the end, bringing it up his back, the rain wetting it enough to let it stick halfway to the skin._

_He turns from George, one hand bracing on the brick wall, memorizing the patterns of George panting heavily behind him. Tom's head swims as he bends over, trying to peer over his shoulder at his best friend. Instead, all he can muster enough is a pathetic, shaky set of two words. "Take me."_

**~*~**

Tom bends slightly at the knees, fisting his cock without friction yet. He needs it so raw, so fucking raw.

**~*~**

_George's jaw quivered, his whole body warm, yet chattering as if this were the dead of winter. Each step towards Tom he can feel his heartbeat slapping in painful rhythms. He pushes his pants down to his ankles, gripping Tom by the waist. He knows now. His body follows its instincts. He spits into his hand with an overflow of saliva, dropping to his knees a little, he parts Tom's cheeks, whispering the details to himself as he drinks in the sight. He dips a finger into the saliva, easing it into that tight, puckered ring of muscle. Tom rocks away from the intrusion, halting it, but eventually pushes back against it moments later. George moves his finger from side to side inside his best friend for a few seconds. It's not long before his digits are soaked in his own spit. It's all so very mind boggling._

_Tom is panting, begging for more. They go on like this. George adding a second, then third finger, fucking Tom up the wall. Tom is spewing every obscenity known to man, begging for George's cock now. He's far too gone to care how he's acknowledging this by words so openly._

**~*~**

Tom drizzles the spit down his shaft, pumping with each thrust of his hips, the carriages louder in the background, eager to get off the dirt road before the mud caked and settled in, making things more difficult. He exhales into his hand.

**~*~**

_George's fingers slipped out of Tom with a rude squelch. Tom is halting his hips to look over his shoulder, flushed, trembling. He knows what's about to happen and how much it'll hurt. But he doesn't dare want to back out now. He can't. This is real, it's happening. No going back. Tom lowers a hand to start stroking his erection now, George nodding with tame precision. He parts Tom's cheeks, coats himself with a thick line, lining himself up to that ring of muscle. He doesn't speak, he can't. He snaps his hips forward to get it over with, Tom's hand clawing up the brick, his face burying in it to muffle his cries. George bottoms out, setting still, body quaking. He's on fire. He's a walking blaze of hellfire. He's burning up. No amount of rain can put him out now that he's sheathed inside this tight, warm part of Tom Fairfax. He struggles to ask Tom if he's okay, if they can.... If he can. But he absolutely cannot put a word with another._

_It's Tom who speaks first. His voice is broken, pained, but oh so delighted with flame that only George can understand in this moment. "George. Jesus, George, move."_

_George can't do anything now, so overwhelmed his eyes burn with the intensity of unleashed tears. He does the action that is right, that is. His left hand slides up Tom's back, moving over his arm until his own fingers are splayed atop Tom's. They lock together as George starts a searing pace. Tom gives back each delicious thrust the more the pain evaporates into a pleasurably stinging pinch. George is half bent over Tom's back, biting marks into the salty, wet flesh, sharing whispers of things beyond his control._

_"You can take this so good, Tommy. My boy. My Tommy. You feel so good inside."_

**~*~**

"George, oh George. I'll always take everything you give me." Tom jerks himself harder, his other hand leaving the wall to cup his balls, one finger dipping to massage it tenderly, imagining it was George coming for him, with him, with a rough, yet gentle hand, behind him to help instead. Tom gets lost, so lost in reality, in the past, in the fantasy.

**~*~**

_Tom's about to break apart. It burns, he's full, so damned full. It's hard to tell where he begins and George ends. It's twisting, twirling in his gut each time George pushes him inside, hitting this spot that makes him alarmed, teetering dangerously. "THERE! Please, don't you dare stop, George! Don't you dare!"_

_George's movements are slopping, this spot inside Tom so receiving. He reaches around with a eager hand, shoving Tom's out of the way of his cock. He's touching Tom now, stroking him languidly with jagged movements, their skin echoing in mutual slaps with each harsh thrust. That edge, that edge they'd only taken with their own hands, George with Loretta Mae, it doesn't compare. They're about to jump. It's sweat, so much rain assaulting senses that neither man can see. Tom is arching into a deeper angle, his other hand lounging back to tug on George's, needing to be held together, rocked off the cliff, off the edge. Together._

_"It's comin', I can feel it, George," Tom barely gets out over the pummeling rain. So vulnerable, so tangled in the need to release this aching fire into satisfaction._

_"I know. I know, Tom. Almost. Hang in there, my Tom. I've got you." George kisses Tom's spine in a trail along the wet flesh and Tom is shocked with the sudden unraveling tickle that makes his eyes dance with shapes, his vision blinded by a white hot shock. He's crying out George's name, coating his best friend's hand with his orgasm ,that has him wide eyed, biting into George's knuckles so hard that he drew blood._

_Tom's walls flutter and squeeze George so tightly, his body spasms and twitches, arching back into George, rocking over his prick. It's all George can do to keep upright. His hand is heavy as Tom grows in it ever so quickly, a pulsing twitch, followed by a warmth flooding over his fingers George suddenly feels, Tom crying out for him. And George smiles into it, knowing Tom just hit his peak. He doesn't think his best friend can hold up any longer, so he gives and gives, his hips aching, knees sore. Tom is encouraging him, muttering words about how good George feels inside. George is combating for that release he needs like the air he breathed._

_"You make it hurt so good for me. I'm so full, George. Do it inside of me."_

**~*~**

He's twisting his wrist, rubbing the shine down his shaft, eyelids fluttering to the invisible music of memory. He's there, it's in his belly, it's surfacing. So close. So godforsaken close.

**~*~**

_"Tom!" George fucks himself two uneven thrusts into his best friend,  the launching heat blinding him to sobs. He's a weak, mushy heap, overheated and spilling inside Tom, collapsing against his back._

**~*~**

"George!" Tom moans out, rutting into his hand with no bounds, damn near riding the ridge of the wall, coming all over his hand, spraying the brick surface before him. He grits his teeth as he rides the waves of his climax, biting into his own knuckles. He struggles to stay still enough to calm down and clean himself up on autopilot after, his aftershocks needing to subside. He's trembling, lips soaked in spit, parted in pants as Tom comes down from his self-induced high.

**~*~**

_Tom was barely there, climbing his hands back up the wall when George slides out of him, Tom crying out against the raw pain. George's now soft cock tinged with fluids, his cum spilling back out of Tom as evidence. They both still, silent. Just heavy breaths. This was real. And they needed it. All the pieces slid into place._

**~*~**

Tom is crawling back into his cot, curling onto his side but burrowing under the covers. His orgasm has him exhausted in ways he appreciates. He just wishes he had come down from that high with George Henderson. He lays there, falling into a half conscious state and right back into a memory.

**~*~**

_"I didn't mean for this to happen, Tommy," George's sullen, broken voice cracked out, his throat seeming to close around the words. He can only face Tom's gaze when he sees that his best friend isn't focused on his eyes, but rather at his own hands in his lap, fingers twitching against the tweed slacks. George watches Tom shift uncomfortably, looking so small, so timid. His knuckles were peeled to red scabs from the previous night's events. His white linen dress shirt battered with dirt, tinting it yellow from the rain water soaking through. His suspenders helped cling the fabric together to make the outfit so.... So Tom._

_George smiled, not able to hide the affectionate gesture towards his best friend. However, it falters as he sees Tom finally look up, the color drained from his beautiful unshaven cheeks. "Didn't mean for me to hurt this way, George?" His accent wraps so sweetly around each word that George is lucky for the stool holding him upright._

_Tom jerks up at attention fully, George recognizing the alarm bells of a panic attack in his best friend. He's surprised to find Tom grasping at his rear end instead, no doubt in pain, reminding George he was inside his best friend the night before, mere hours ago. Tom starts to pace crookedly across the hardwood floors in thick footfalls._

_"Tommy, I-"_

_"I let you put it in me, didn't I? I didn't push you away. I...I wanted to feel it," Tom confirmed softly, his eyes a blaze with the burn of unshed tears, his lashes meshing together with the pooling moisture._

_George's heartbeat is in his throat now, memories licking at his stomach in ways he wasn't prepared to handle, to recognize yet. His heartbeat manages to string cobwebs of jagged beats down along his ribcage to assist. His mouth is so hoarse, so dry the moment he can finally speak. "Don't....Tom."_

_"I just wanted to, no I needed to know how you felt inside me. And oh..." Tom's eyes slithered closed, the water spilling over those freckled cheeks, sliding down his neck to his Adam's apple that bobs with a sharp intake of breath. The breeze picks up the white curtains, fanning Tom's scent directly towards George. Apple, cinnamon, smoke, beer, dirt, rainwater... And himself. Their scents ever so entangled, making last night more apparent than ever. "oh, how good it felt. I didn't know it could feel that way. This way, George, didn't you feel it too? When you were inside of me?"_

_George's body is up from the stool, locked to the floor. He can't move. He can barely remember how to breathe, his body reacting naturally enough for him that it pushes harsh puffs of air from his lungs. His body flowing so natural beyond his comprehension lately. Last night..... Now. He should run, he should go before Tom can even speak again. But he can't. He's anchored to every goddamned word coming from Thomas Fairfax's perfect, warm mouth. Those lips he can still sense on his skin almost like a... a sunburn? So hot to your skin, right there with you after. Peeling back your layers to bare your flesh. Raw within its own form. The comparison is startling, odd. And George can't shake himself from suddenly remembering where his best friend left his unintentional claims on him last night. Did Tom even remember?_

_George wants to laugh. He was sober, sober enough to grip fistfuls of red hair, egging Tom on to bite into his neck, to suck on the flesh. They were both sober enough to.... **No, NO! This wasn't. They were drunk, this was silly.**_

_"I felt you come inside of me, George. You released. You were so warm in me. The way you moved, the way you shook inside. Like we were meant to be in that alley, like we're always meant to be." Tom paused, now looking at his best friend, the one who took his virginity. "You're thinkin' about it too, aren't you?"_

_George edges back when Tom tries to move in closer. "It's wrong. We can't ever tell them. We can't do this again. If Loretta knew, if Alice... It's not natural, Tom."_

_Those green eyes recoiled in pain, causing the breath to vanquish and leave a winded George Henderson in its wake. He tilts his head, pleading with Tom in their unspoken, but understood language. Tom steps back, wincing, shaking his head. "No, no I know what I felt. I know what you felt with me. I don't care if they think it's wrong. It can't be when it's this right. It's like any love, any natural love, George..... You, you know so," Tom whispered, wiping angrily at his eyes._

_"Tommy.... Please, don't ask this of me, just as I can't ask this of you. We can't. You know we can't." George fixates his footsteps to take him until he's against Tom, his smarts telling him not to, but every single part of his being pulling on him until he listens, giving into this, the new natural. He cups his fingers at the nape of Tom's neck, pulling them so their foreheads are together._

_"George, you can hate me all you want. You can tell on me if you desire to, but I wanted it. I want...I want you." Tom's eyes are darting across George's face, looking him in those blue eyes. George's resolve crumbles around the aching squeeze in his chest. He's done for. He sighs, trying as hard as he can not to grip Tom by the hips and take him against the wall again, right here, right now. He can at least tell himself now, admit. Seconds ago he couldn't, but... but he can't risk loosing his sanity in denial. He permits the truth in this room, between the two of them and them alone._

_"Okay, Tom, okay. Just breathe. We gotta breathe for hell's sake, for heaven's sake, for our sakes." Tom nods against him, before George speaks up again. "Look at me, Tom."_

_Green meets blue in a mess of knowing, sullen smiles. Parted lips, blown pupils. Blonde and red. Freckles, so many combined. What a sweet mess. George can't stop himself from leaning in, snatching a chaste kiss to test. Why, why does he feel the drums sound, the muskets going off? Explosives crackling his brain? His eyes close, his lips take Tom's. It's a meeting of perfect minds. George hears the wind whistle through the window, carrying him off his feet. His hands fist into Tom's linen shirt, thumb nails scraping at the suspenders slapped over. "It was just once. It can only be as such, Tom," George breaks their kiss in a whisper of those words, mouth swollen, slick with Tom's taste, his blue eyes glistening with tears, loosing something he finally found when it was right in front of him since that red headed, green eyed little boy crossed his path that day, back when they were both barely able or old enough to lift a haystack._

_Tom shivers himself into a small choked cry, yanking from George's hold, reclining against the wall. "If that's how you feel about me now, if what we were supposed to be is just erased, is just once, then you should --"_

_"You can't. We can still be.... Tom, please?" George can't feel the ground beneath his feet, feels himself trembling inside with anxiety, with fear. It comes from Tom, the grounded, the strictly bull by the horns of the two, all or nothing when it has to be - Tom Fairfax._

_"Go. Go away from your one, Georgie. Make this a just once goodbye, because we both know where we were headed. Where we're goin'. There was always somethin' different about us, wasn't there? We can't go back on it. If we can't even be us in here, together, alone right now then this goodbye is our last just once."_

_George's tongue clicks at the roof of his mouth when the hot tears effect his throat, tightening each muscle to cut off his speech capabilities. His jaw moves to try and help, no avail. He watches his best friend put a wall up right in front of him, just like that. In a way, even with George denying this to go any further, his best friend was the smarter of the two. Because if they tried to go back like before, trying to be /just/ friends, they both knew it would end up badly, or they would continue this.... This tragedy by the eyes of god in their societies' standards. And George knew that couldn't continue. It wasn't safe, it was bound to end up horribly, painfully. He'd loose his best friend in the worst, tragic way. Now it seems he was doomed either way they went. This is safer though, yeah. No temptations, no worries. Smart._

_The piano down the stairs causes them to break briefly, the sound of a female voice calling up the stairs when the melody stops. "Tom, Alice is here. My goodness she brought you some lovely treats."_

_George's chest caves in on itself. Alice Green invading them this way, invading his boy. He watches Tom bite at the raw skin of his knuckle, refusing to look at him. "You need to go now."_

_George can't do this. He absolutely cannot handle this. He's shaking his head, trying to use his hands to plead with his best friend, to beg for some mutual ground. Tom strikes him to the floor with his tone, sparing him nothing short with an exception of a boot to the ass that would send him out the door, over the staircase and to his death. And that's it, Tom Fairfax would be the death of George Henderson._

_"She won't be my just once. I'll make her my forever," Tom croaks, chin trembling, yet jawline set firm. George's eyes widened The earth stopped, his head spun in its place. He's walking to himself, away from Tom, Tom isn't looking back at him when he leaves the room. Alice Green passes George short of Tom's door with her ridiculous ensemble, her harlot scent, her basket full of poison as she gives him a flirtatious smile, taking his place in Tom's room, the door closing behind them. George stops, settling, his foot on the first step of the landing when he can't  bring himself to do it, he can't go. He moves back to rest against the wall outside Tom's door. He waits for it, he's quiet, so quiet. And he hears a shrill scream that's hushed not long after. A 'yes, oh yes, Tom, I will!' to follow._

_George's ears ring static, his heart tatters into pathetic pieces that dangle and slap senselessly against one other, leaving him an immobile mess, that eventually whips his defeated posture up until he's out of the Fairfax household in rapid movements and into the woods, on his knees, out of breath and crying out as he crashes to his knees on the forest floor, the alcohol, his stomach's contents from the day beforehand emptying over the dirt._

**~*~**

Tom's head lolls itself back into the pillow, willing it all away. George had told him this, these things from his perspective too. Tom's chest rings with such a hollow, growing, empty ache that the covers begin to suffocate him. He throws off the blankets and peers up at the ceiling, eyes a glow with the lantern casting shadows above him, he calls out as if his best friend can hear him. "My first just once was always my only forever, George."


End file.
